


was by was

by acommontater



Category: Glee
Genre: HIV/AIDS, Historical AU, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 05:43:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4510014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acommontater/pseuds/acommontater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She stares up at the poster of Babs that she has on her wall with determination. If Barbra could make it, so could she.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> So about a bajillion years ago or maybe last year, an anon sent a prompt to tenaciouscorpse and I asked if I could write it. They both said that that was fine. Nearly a year later I'm finally finished and am posting the fic that came from the prompt- it got away from me just a bit.
> 
> The original prompt is here (http://tenaciouscorpse.tumblr.com/post/99797411701) SPOILERS IN THE PROMPT FOR THE FIC (I took some liberties with my interpretation of the prompt.)
> 
> A bajillion thanks to fyrmaiden/vampireisabitstrong for betaing this for me, this fic honestly would not have come together without your help.
> 
> Trigger warnings are at the bottom notes (again, because spoilery) but there is nothing graphic or extreme in the fic.

_one day anyone died i guess_

_(and noone stooped to kiss his face)_

_busy folk buried them side by side_

_little by little and was by was_

-anyone lived in a pretty how town, e.e. cummings

 

[present, 1987]

She stares up at the poster of Babs that she has on her wall with determination. If Barbra could make it, so could she.

With that, she tugs her shirt straight and walks out the door to work.

______

[past, 1977]

Light humming comes from the direction of the kitchen as he wakes up. The bed next to him is empty. He rolls out of bed and pads down the hall to the kitchen.

He wraps his arms around his lover from behind, tucking his nose against the back notch of his unexpected cook’s spine.

"Ooh, I love you, no one could ever love me like you do…" His love sings softly, before reaching out and turning the burner off, leaving the pan. His lover turns in his arms, smiling gently as he leans up and presses a kiss to those soft lips.

_____

[present, 1987]

Rachel knocks on the blue door of the house. The paint job of the door looks sloppy, she observes. It still looks like newish paint, but it’s already peeling in some spots.

The door swings open to reveal a man. She smiles brightly and sticks her hand out. The man just stares at her blankly. Well. She lets her hand drop, but carries on, undeterred.

"Hello, I’m Rachel Berry, I’m looking for a Mr. Anderson? We spoke on the phone last week about my employment in cleaning his house?"

He blinks and then seems to start out of whatever fog he was lost in.

"Oh, yes of course. Sorry. That’s me. Come in. I’ll show you around."

She follows Mr. Anderson down the narrow entryway to where the house opens up. He gestures loosely to the rooms.

"There’s the kitchen, living room, and dining room."

The living room is comfortable looking- a plush sofa and loveseat set, dark wood tables and tv cabinet, with antique lamps around the room. A piano is tucked against one of the walls, closed and covered in knick-knacks. The wide bay window with built in seat is hidden behind the heavy closed curtains. The kitchen looks fairly standard- a fridge, microwave, oven and stove, with neatly organized counter space. The living room holds a table with chairs, an overhead light, and a large china cabinet, but is otherwise bare.

The walls are sparsely decorated- colorful and complementary to each other, but bare except for the odd, characterless still life prints.

The cleaning that he needs done is basic. Dusting every few days, general tidiness around the house, dishes if needed, maybe some cooking if he requests it. Mr. Anderson works odd hours for extended periods of time, so he may or may not be home at any given point, but if he called he probably wouldn’t be back that day and…

They trade information, and discuss wages ($5 an hour, she’d nearly screamed in excitement) and just like that Rachel has a job.

\--------

Rachel comes by weekly, usually Thursdays or Fridays. The work isn’t usually hard- Mr. Anderson doesn’t seem to be an untidy person- but it’s almost enjoyable to have a quiet house to herself for a few hours a week. She sings as she works, belting out as loud as she likes with no one there to tell her to be quiet.

The dismal winter weather gives way to a tentative spring and two months after she starts it’s a beautiful spring day. The sun is out and there’s a spring in her step as she walks down the sidewalk to Mr. Anderson’s.

She calls out a cheerful hello as she enters the house but, as usual, it’s just her in the building. Humming, she hangs up her coat and scarf before heading to the kitchen to see the list of things for her to do on the kitchen table. It’s short that day- the usual stuff, plus some dishes left in the sink.

The inside of the house however, dim and dark as it is, doesn’t match her mood at all. She decides to change that, starting with the living room.

She marches over to the heavy drapes over the bay window and flings them open. Or well, it takes her several tries to actually drag them over to the sides, but she gets there. The bright sun fights to get through the dirty windows. She drags the dirty cushion off the bench and drags it out the back to beat it out. The cloud of dust that erupts from it makes her cough. Once back inside, Rachel sets about cleaning the thick layer of dust and dirt off of the windows (how long had the curtains been closed for what was hidden behind them to get so filthy? She wonders) and is surprised to discover that the windows underneath are a beautiful stained glass.

Small rectangles in a variety of sizes and a veritable rainbow of colors appear under her damp cloth and scrubbing brush. As they’re cleaned, the sun breaks through and lights up the room in a riot of cheery colors. It makes the blank, white walls make sense. Why would you want to cover up the walls with clutter when you could have this sun painting instead?

Her mood now suitably matched, she sets out to do the regular work required of her. As she dusts in the living room she knocks the cloth covering a small bookshelf askew. She reaches to twitch it back into place, but pauses when she sees what’s on the shelf. Tugging the cloth all the way off, her eyes go wide at the collection of records hidden there. They go alphabetically by artist down the shelves and she eagerly scans the titles to get an idea of who Mr. Anderson could be. The artists seem to have no common thread- every album of The Beatles, a few of The Monkees, what looks like the entire discography of The Supremes, Aretha Franklin, too much Elvis for her tastes, Fontella Bass, so much Queen, there was nearly an entire shelf dedicated to disco and rock that she knew- it just went on and on. None of it seemed to add up to the quiet, somber person that Mr. Anderson seemed to be. She sat back on her heels, frowning.

From the music here she would think that this house was the home of bright, cheerful person who probably liked to dance. The Mr. Anderson that she has met seems about as far from that as Rabbi Aaron.

Rachel decides to figure out Mr. Anderson’s secrets later, and do her job now. One of her own favorite albums, Judy Garland and Liza Minnelli Live! At the London Palladium, sits on the third shelf so she puts that on and turns to volume of the speakers up as loud as she dares.

She belts along with Judy and Liza as she finishes cleaning, and is putting the cushion for the bay window back into place when the door opens.

“Where troubles melt like lemon dr- Oh, hi, Mr. Anderson!” Rachel says brightly.

Mr. Anderson seems to have frozen in the doorway, hand still on knob, halfway through loosening his tie with the other. Judy cheerfully warblers on about dreams as the man in the doorway stays still and the air in the house grows suddenly awkward and Rachel’s smile falters. The song fades out and the sweeping opening chords of ‘San Francisco’ crackle in and still Mr. Anderson stands there. Rachel finds it in herself to move and lift the needle of the record player. The spell seems to break as the music stops and Mr. Anderson startles out of whatever he’d been caught in.

“Please…” He stops, restarts, seeming to gather himself with great effort. “Please get out, Rachel.”

She stares at him.

“Mr. Anderson, I’m sorry I listened to your records, I didn’t know you didn’t want them played, I’ll put it away, I just…”

“Just. Get out. Please. Now.” His voice is strained and clipped. She can’t decide if he’s trying not to yell or not to cry as she gathers her things and nearly runs out of the house.

_____

[Past]

“Mmmm, ah, _Blaine_ …”

The voice of his lover rises against the soft crooning of the record on in the background while Blaine explores the expanse of pale skin before him with his mouth and fingers. An exceptional twist of his fingers makes his lover jerk and gasp against him. Blaine grins and kisses his way back to his lover’s mouth, stealing the gasps and whines with his own lips…

[present, 1987]

He wakes up alone, empty glass of wine dangling precariously from his fingers.

The record that he’d left on plays on in a scratchy, tired sort of way as he moves to the kitchen to clean up.

_The night is bitter,_

_The stars have lost their glitter,_

_The winds grow colder_

_And suddenly you're older,_

_And all because of the man that got away._

_No more his eager call,_

_The writing's on the wall,_

_The dreams you dreamed have all_

_Gone astray…._ **_ [1] _ **

He goes to bed and it feels emptier and colder than it has in a long time.

[April, 1976]

He gets into the elevator at work near the end of day and the doors open before he gets back to his floor.

A man in a bright blue suit enters, his nose buried in a thick portfolio. The lights ding again and the elevator continues upwards. Suddenly there’s a horrible creaking sound and the elevator jerks. The lights flicker and then go out. Blaine freezes. The other man lets out a quiet scream.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Blaine reaches out blindly for the other man’s shoulder. “It’ll be fine, we’re just stuck for a little bit.”

The other man’s hand finds his and grips it tightly. The completely inappropriate part of Blaine’s brain gets stuck on how soft his hand is.

“Sorry.” The other man’s voice is higher than he’d expected. “I just, don’t do will with confined spaces. Or the dark. I might throw up, sorry up front if I do.”

“It’s quite alright.” Blaine assures him. He reaches out a finds the emergency button, pressing it.

They wait, in the dark, holding hands. No one comes.

“Of course the emergency button is broken.” The other man says, a slightly hysterical edge to his voice.

“Hey, hey, it’ll be okay. Someone will notice that the elevator isn’t working sooner or later and get us out.” Blaine tries.

“It’s the end of the day. Everyone probably went home and we are going to die in this elevator and my roommate is going to bring me back to life just to murder me again for it.”

Blaine doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Well. If we’re going to be stuck in here for now, I’m Blaine. Blaine Anderson.” He squeezes the other man’s hand.

“Kurt. Hummel. Of course I get stuck in an elevator with Dreamboat Anderson, this is just my luck.”

“Um.”

There’s a pause.

“Oh god, I said that last part out loud didn’t I.” Kurt says, horrified. He tries to pull his hand back. “I’m so sorry, it’s a nickname my roommate has for you, my roommate who is a woman! It just kind of rubbed off and…”

“Hey, hey!” Blaine doesn’t let go of his hand. “It’s fine, Kurt. I’d actually be very disappointed if your roommate-who-is-a-woman was the only one interested in me.”

(Blaine realizes a second later that this could backfire horribly if he’s stuck in an elevator for who knows how long with a guy who hates people like him, but he takes a gamble.)

Kurt pauses again.

“…..really?” He says, hopefully.

Blaine stifles a laugh.

“Yes, really. I’m sure she’s lovely, but uh not really my type if you know what I mean.”

He can feel the tension leave Kurt’s body.

“Oh good. Me either.”

It hits Blaine then that he is stuck in a small space with a guy who definitely thinks that he’s cute and is potentially very good-looking himself even if Blaine didn’t get a good look at him before the lights went out. He clears his throat and shifts his weight awkwardly. Kurt reaches across him to try the emergency alarm again.

Nothing happens.

He lets out a shaky breath unintentionally close to Blaine’s ear. It sends goosebumps across his skin. Kurt pulls back abruptly, (reluctantly) dropping Blaine’s hand.

“I guess we really are stuck for now.” He says finally.

Blaine somehow can’t find it in himself to be too upset about the situation.

***

The time passes easily- they start talking and discover that they have a lot in common.

Kurt, it turns out, is an editor and designer at the fashion magazine that’s located a few floors down from Blaine’s. They talk about work, which then meanders to musicals after Kurt mentions having had a hand in some of the costume designs currently on the Great White Way. The conversation comes easily and they don’t notice as the time goes by.

The sudden creaky groan of the elevator coming back to life startles them both. The lights return with great reluctance as the elevator starts moving.

Blaine squints, eyes watering a little after so long in the dark. He looks over to finally get a good look at the man he’d been trapped with.

Blaine finds himself looking at someone who is probably the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen. Kurt’s face is scrunched up against the light, but he turns to look at Blaine and catches him staring.

“You’re even handsomer up close.” Kurt blurts out, clapping a hand over his mouth as soon as the words leave his mouth.

Blaine scrunches his nose and shakes his head bashfully- he’s not vain, but it’s nice to be to hear that Kurt thinks he’s good looking.

The elevator doors open and they stumble out of the confined space gratefully. Blaine glances at his watch to find that they’d been trapped for around four hours- it’s nearly ten o’clock. As if reminded of this, his stomach growls loudly in the empty hallway. Kurt chuckles, but then grimaces in sympathy.

“There’s a decent diner a couple blocks away, if you’d like to join me.” Kurt offers. “I used to work there, so I know that the food’s safe to eat. Usually.”

“I’d love that.” Blaine says.

They end up leaving the diner hours later, hiding grins from each other, and each clutching the other’s phone number like a precious gem.

[Present, 1987]

Rachel shows up the next day that she’s supposed to, because say what you will about her, she’s not a quitter.

She knocks on the door and straightens her spine. If she is actually fired she still wants to have some dignity.

Mr. Anderson answers the door and looks a little surprised to see her.

“Rachel. Hello.”

She takes a deep breath.

“Mr. Anderson, I just wanted to know if I’m still employed here after last week and…”

Mr. Anderson interrupts her quickly.

“Oh, no, Rachel, of course you’re still employed! I didn’t mean to imply that you weren’t welcome anymore. Please, come in.”

Her shoulders sag in relief. (And mentally she reviews those defense moves that she learned in that class her dad made her take. Just in case. Even though Mr. Anderson is about as threatening as a small puppy.) Rachel follows him to the kitchen where he pulls out a chair for her. She unbuttons her coat and sits. Mr. Anderson fidgets momentarily.

“Would you like a drink or anything? Tea?”

“Tea, please. With honey and lemon.”

He sets about boiling water and getting mugs from the cabinet and the weird tension in the room breaks.

“I’m sorry for listening to your records without asking.” She says quietly as Mr. Anderson sets their steaming mugs down on the table. He pulls out a chair across from and sits, wrapping his hands around his own mug of tea.

“It’s fine, Rachel. I… over reacted. You couldn’t have known.” He gives a small, but sad, smile. “For future reference though, you are welcome to play them. I was just caught by surprise. I can remove the ones that I’d rather not be played.”

Rachel perks up then. Working will be so much better with being able to sing along with her favorite songs.

[January, 1978]

They celebrate New Year’s at Elliot and Adam’s.

They are both old friends of Kurt’s- in Adam’s case an old ex- that he’d met while in school. Elliot is a guitarist/singer who often had gigs in little dive bars and random coffee shops, as well as being a part-time yoga instructor. Adam is a vocal coach for a few local theaters and performing arts programs. The two of them are some of the most relaxed people Blaine has ever met in his life.

Adam is always ready with a cup of tea suited for the occasion, knits, and always has a shoulder to lean or cry on, and Blaine is at least 95% sure that if he asked, Elliot would have a doobie on hand, along with a guitar, and blunt advice to give.

The party starts around ten, but they arrive a little early to help set up. Given them and all of their friends, it was probable that the party was going to dissolve into karaoke eventually, so making their apartment a decent performance venue was critical.

They chat about their lives as Elliot and Blaine shove the furniture into more convenient locations and Adam and Kurt set up the drinks and food trays. Adam tells them about the couple that had come into one of the youth theater programs he helped run and tried to sign their not-quite-eight year old up for the program. Adam had spent nearly thirty minutes trying to explain that it was a program for kids in middle school and up, not elementary age kids, not matter how precocious their little star was. Blaine shook his head and laughed.

Friends and guests started arriving shortly after they finished setting up. Blaine became immersed in conversation with a friend of a friend’s named April, an aspiring actress/singer, whose stories make Blaine’s eyebrows climb up his forehead.

Kurt swings by and grabs his arm.

“Blaine, the countdown’s starting in a few minutes c’mon, I want my midnight kiss.”

They duck out to Adam and Elliot’s balcony, looking out over the bright sparks of light filling the city. The sounds of partiers drifts up distantly from the streets, clashing with the dulled revelry from inside the apartment. Their breath puffs out in long trails of white. The cold feels refreshing after the warmth of the living room and Blaine watches as Kurt tips his head back, reveling in the chill of the air while it still feels good. The lights from the city play across the planes of his face and Blaine gets a little lost in watching. Kurt looks at him

“Enjoying the view?”

“Mmm, you know it.” Blaine murmurs, leaning forward. He rests his hands on Kurt’s hips and pulls him closer, sliding his hands into the back pockets of Kurt’s pants. Kurt huffs out a laugh as he does. “I love you a lot, you know.”

“Mmhmm, I love you too, you big sap.”

“ _I’m_ the sap. _I’m_ not the one who cries at the end of A Chorus Line every single time…”

Kurt shushes him with a kiss.

“Okay, so we’re both big saps together.”

Blaine stares at him and makes a decision. He releases Kurt and slides down to one knee, gripping Kurt’s hands. Kurt is staring at him with wide eyes.

“Blaine, what…”

“Kurt Hummel, love of my life. I know that we can’t actually get married- if we could I would go all out on a proposal- but would you do me the honor of the next best thing and move in with me?”

“Of course, I would love to.” Kurt is crying as he pulls Blaine up to his feet to kiss him.

He wraps his arms around Blaine’s shoulders and neither of them notice the sudden raucous celebration throughout the city at the clock hits midnight.

_Marry me a little, Love me just enough._

_Cry, but not too often, Play, but not too rough._

_Keep a tender distance, so we'll both be free._

_That's the way it ought to be._

_I'm ready! **[2]**_

[Present, 1987]

When Rachel gets to the house that week, she finds an additional note saying that there is a plate of lunch set aside for her in the fridge if she would like it. The thought is nice, she thinks, but it probably isn’t kosher or vegetarian.

After she finishes in the kitchen, she goes to dust the living room. On the coffee table is a thick scrapbook that she hasn’t seen before. Curious, she leans over the table to look.

The book is open to a page with one large picture and a few smaller ones. The largest picture shows a group of people on the beach, arms around each other, grinning widely at the camera. A younger looking Mr. Anderson is off-center, his arm around a taller blonde woman and a tall man with a shock of dark hair on his other side. The handwritten caption underneath reads _The gang takes on NJ!_ The other pictures on the page show the blonde woman again, this time with her arms around a different dark-haired woman, a picture of a man and a woman in bathing suits throwing peace signs at the camera person (labelled _Mike and Tina catching some rays_ ), and a picture of Mr. Anderson, an unfamiliar man with a large brimmed sunhat, and the man with the tall dark hair. The dark haired man and Mr. Anderson are planting what looked like surprise kisses to the cheeks of the third man, who was looking at the camera like some old-time starlet taken aback. The caption is _Kisses for Kurt!_ with the exclamation point dotted with a small heart.

She smiles softly at the obvious joy in the photos. Idly, she turns another few pages, showing more pictures of the beach trip. Then she shuts the book and leaves it be.

[October, 1981]

The phone in his office rings loudly, startling him from his papers.

“Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Blaine Anderson?”

“Yes?”

“This is Saint Clare’s hospital, Mr. Anderson, you are listed as primary contact for a Mr. Kurt Hummel, correct?”

His heart jumps to his throat.

“Yes, I’m his… I’m his roommate. What’s happened?”

“Mr. Hummel was involved in an incident this afternoon. He’s in stable condition now, but we need you to come in and fill out some information so that he can be discharged later this week.”

Blaine feels like all of the joints in his body have turned to jelly.

“Of course, I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

****

By the time he gets to the hospital it’s a couple hours later and he’s had time to work himself into a panic over all of the worst case scenarios he can imagine. Blaine nearly runs into the reception area, skidding in front of the desk. The woman behind the desk glances up at him.

“Hi. Hello, um I’m here about Kurt Hummel? He was admitted this afternoon, I’m Blaine Anderson, his roommate.”

The woman gives him a bored look and types something into the computer on her desk.

“He’s up on the second floor, room 206. You can go up, visiting hours are until nine o’clock.” She says, and then promptly loses interest in him.

“Thank you.” Blaine says, before forcing himself to walk to the stairwell.

He gets turned around a couple of times before finding the right hallway. Room 206 is as drab and sterile as he’d expected, but somehow worse because of the still form on the single bed.

Blaine swallows hard and then crosses the threshold to sit on the edge of the bed. He aches to take Kurt’s hand, but is all too aware of the nuns he occasionally sees in the hall. Instead he focuses on the slow rise and fall of Kurt’s chest, and not the tubes sticking out of his arm or the bruises on his face or the odd lump of his leg under the blanket.

A short time later a nurse comes into the room, surprised as she notices him. Blaine stands immediately.

“Hello. I’m Blaine Anderson, I’m his roommate. Um. Can you please tell me what happened?”

The nurse smiles kindly at him.

“Of course. Let’s see.” She flips some papers on her clipboard. “Mr. Hummel was involved in what we believe was an attempted mugging this afternoon. He fought back and a bystander called for an ambulance after seeing two men exit the alley. Unfortunately he was unconscious by the time the paramedics arrived, so we aren’t quite sure of the whole story. Mr. Hummel was lucky though- it’s mostly superficial, but his ribs are bruised pretty badly and his left leg is broken. His kneecap was shattered and one of the bones nicked an artery but it looks like they got to him quickly and he was fine after a transfusion as they set his leg.”

Blaine feels rather shaky. A “mugging”. He’s known plenty of people who’ve gotten mugged- they live in New York City after all- but none of them have ever had injuries this extensive. He knows all too well what men like the kind that had been in that alley think about men who are as unashamed of themselves as Kurt is. He discreetly presses against the phantom ache of his own long-healed ribs.

The nurse puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“He’s going to be okay. He’ll be in for a hell of a few months getting around, but he’s young and strong so recovery won’t be an issue for him. Now if you’ll excuse me I just have to take a few vitals and then get a move on.”

“Of course.” Blaine said, managing to give her a weak smile. “Thank you.”

She pats his shoulder, putters around the machines and iv drip for a moment, and then leaves.

Blaine waited until the clack of her heels fades before reaching out to grab Kurt’s hand. It’s limp in his own, but warm and solid. He curls up in the bed beside Kurt, glad for once of his smaller stature, and let’s out a sigh of relief.

Kurt will be fine.

He sings softly as he waits for Kurt to wake up.

_Nothing’s gonna harm you, not while I’m around… **[3]**_

********

[Present, 1987]

The next time Rachel comes it’s raining and awful out. She shakes out her umbrella and toes off her boots as soon as she’s through the door. She yells out to let Mr. Anderson know that she’s there, but gets no response.

Shrugging, she finds her list of requests on the kitchen table and moves to start on them. Then she remembers the record collection. Rachel almost runs to the living room. True to his word, Mr. Anderson had gone through and removed some of the records, but there was more than enough left on the shelves. Eagerly she finds an Aretha Franklin record and settles herself in to tidy up and belt along with the songs.

As Aretha’s rich voice filled the house, she goes to the closet in the hall to find the broom. The one in the kitchen that she usually uses is missing. Humming along, she opens the door and finds that it is full of coats. They’re made of rich fabrics and in an amazing assortment of patterns and styles. She strokes along the arms of them, enjoying the feeling of the fabric beneath her fingers. It’s odd- she’s never seen Mr. Anderson in any of these. He usually wears a simple black peacoat when it was cold. Weird.

Remembering what she was looking for, she shoves the coats to the side and resumes looking for the broom and dustpan.

Instead she finds… boxes. Several large cardboard boxes are stacked behind the coats. They aren’t taped shut or labeled and her curiosity gets the best of her. The first box holds an almost astounding number of scarves. Thick, warm, and woolen scarves to fine floral silks fill the box like some sort of treasure chest in a magic cave. She tucks them all back and folds the box shut. Was Mr. Anderson a secret hoarder of clothes or something?

The second box holds only a large, knitted quilt in dozens of colors. The material is soft and thick, each row slightly different. It’ss beautiful. Why would Mr. Anderson pack something like this away? Stumped, Rachel sits back on her heels, the blanket on her lap. Glancing back to the living room, she is struck that the blanket would look wonderful against the couch, especially with the stained glass window to highlight the colors. Mr. Anderson wouldn’t mind.

Rachel shakes the blanket out and refolds it before laying it out over the back of the couch. Perfect.

She puts the empty box back and then manages to locate the broom in the kitchen pantry. She sings along loudly as she tidies up.

_There been things all of my life I wanted to do that made me blue;_

_Help me hold onto this dream, for sometimes, dreams often come true,_

_And they'll come true, they'll come true, for me and you..._ **_ [4] _ **

[November, 1981]

Kurt swears loudly as he spills some hot coffee into his lap. Blaine winces sympathetically and passes him some napkins.

The nurse at the hospital had been right about Kurt being in for a rough few months- nearly his entire leg is plastered, and between the cast and his sore ribs, getting around is practically impossible. On the better days, Kurt is just glad that it hadn’t been his arm and deprived him of work. On days like today, where he can’t even move to stop scalding coffee from getting on his leg, he’s not so glad about anything really.

On top of that he feels like he is getting sick- his throat is hurting and his head is starting to pound. Blaine tucks him back into bed after breakfast and tries to kiss him, but Kurt bats him away.

“Don’t be stupid, we can’t afford to have both of us down for the count. We’ll both end up on one of those trashy late night news reports- Degenerate Homosexuals Found in Their Apartment Weeks After Death by some nosy neighbor who smelled something weird. I can’t go out like that, Blaine. I have a reputation to keep up.”

Blaine laughs and kisses him anyway, dodging getting smacked.

“Love you, be back in a few hours. There’s a bottle of water on the table, along with more medicine if you need it.”

Kurt grins at him.

“Go bring home the bacon honey, you know how much I love being a kept man.”

Blaine rolls his eyes and grabs his briefcase.

“Bye, Kurt. Love you, see you later.”

“Love you too.”

Blaine dashes out the door and Kurt falls asleep.

[Present, 1987]

Mr. Anderson is home a few weeks later when she arrives. He has staff paper and a few books spread across the table in front of him and several mugs of cold tea and coffee set randomly around the room.

He looks up as she walks in, smiling quickly at her before being re-immersed in his work. It’s not the first time Rachel has caught him in the middle of a creative rush.

She tries to stay quiet as she works her way through her jobs, humming quietly as she does. Mr. Anderson wanders past her into the kitchen to set a fresh kettle of water on the stove, frowning down at the notebook in his hand. She can seeing him leaning against the counter waiting for the water to boil as she sweeps the hallway.

“Rachel!” She jumps and clutches her heart as Mr. Anderson’s head suddenly pops out of the doorway. He gives her an apologetic look. “Sorry, but you sing right? You can read music?”

She draws herself up.

“Of course.”

“Come here for a moment, would you?” He vanishes back into the kitchen and she follows, curious.

Mr. Anderson hands her the notebook of sheet paper where there’s a sketch of a song written out.

“Could you sing that for me? There’s something not quite right about it, but I can’t figure it out. It’s written for a soprano voice and I can’t get the feel of what exactly feels awkward.”

He hums the opening line for her and she looks it over for a long moment. The poem is in French and her grasp of the language isn’t quite good enough to understand exactly what it’s talking about.

She sings it softly for him and he taps out the rhythm of the accompaniment for her. Partway through the second page she pauses and frowns at the music.

“Here,” she taps the measure. “the way you’ve split up the words here on top of the leap makes it awkward and it throws of the phrasing for the rest of the words.”

He takes the notebook back from her and looks at the part she’s indicated. His eyebrows shoot up comically.

“Of course, thank you, Rachel! That was extremely helpful.”

Mr. Anderson meanders back into the living room just before the tea kettle starts whistling. He doesn’t seem to notice it after a few seconds, so Rachel rolls her eyes and pulls the screaming kettle off of the burner and pours it into the mug that Mr. Anderson had left on the counter.

She takes it into the living room to find him deeply engrossed in reworking the song.

“You left your tea, Mr. Anderson.”

“What? Oh. Thank you.” He takes the proffered mug and sets it on one of the thick books resting on the table.

Rachel picks one up and looks at it curiously. It’s a thick anthology of French poetry, the title curling across the cover in black ink.

“I’m working on a song cycle.” Mr. Anderson says, not looking up. “It was going very well for the first few, but I’ve hit a block it seems.” He sighs, leaning back and scrubbing his hands through his hair, causing it to spring up wildly all over his head.

Rachel puts the book down.

“Why don’t you just write some new songs in English then? Wouldn’t that be easier?”

“Well, yes and no. There’s a different set of challenges with writing your own words, but I like the flow of the words in the Romance languages. I’m partial to Italian, but French was the favorite language of the person who was the inspiration behind this work. And besides, I like to think of poems as songs that just haven’t been sung just yet. There’s music everywhere, it’s just a matter of connecting the right set of notes to the right collection of words.”

Rachel smiles.

“That’s lovely, Mr. Anderson.”

[March, 1982]

Blaine is pretty sure that he’s never seen Kurt as happy as the day he gets his cast off.

They both know that it will be a while before he’s back to full mobility, but just the thought of having the itchy awful hunk of plaster off of his leg is enough to make Kurt nearly faint with joy.

The sound of the saw is awful, as is how his leg smells once they break the cast open, but both of them are relieved to see the thing go. Kurt cannot wait to take a shower once they get home. Blaine frowns as the doctor moves Kurt’s leg to slide the splint around.

“What’s that?” He points.

The doctor lifts Kurt’s leg again to look at the red marks. Kurt cranes his head to try and see.

“What? What is it? Am I deformed from the cast or something?”

The doctor shakes his head.

“No, you’re fine. Rashes or skin irritants happen pretty often with the long term casts, especially if the person has sensitive skin. It’ll probably clear up by the end of the week or at least the end of the month. Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh.” Blaine sighs, relieved.

“Worry-wort.” Kurt says, rolling his eyes.

Blaine laughs and helps him down from the table. The doctor gives him a new prescription and instructions on how to set up physical therapy sessions as well as strong recommendations to take it easy for a while longer.

“I’ve seen so many patients wind up right back where they started because they couldn’t wait until they rebuilt the muscles in their leg to start walking. I don’t want you to be one of them, Mr. Hummel.” He says with a severe look.

“I’m sure Blaine will keep me on lockdown, doc. No worries.” Kurt responds, with a small salute.

They leave the hospital and Kurt flings his arms into the air in triumph.

“Freedom! Sort of. Starting with getting home and taking a shower. Together.” He waggled his eyebrows at Blaine.

“And just what are you insinuating, Mr. Hummel?” Blaine says archly. “I would hope that you aren’t trying to besmirch my character.”

“Of _course_ not.” Kurt drawls. “I was simply referring to how you are an exceptionally helpful roommate. Also that I would not turn down the opportunity to ah- _besmirch_ my handsome roommate’s delectable ass.”

Blaine lets out an indignant noise and goes bright red. Kurt laughs, clutching his crutches to stay upright.

“Come on, let’s go home.” Blaine shakes his head fondly, wrapping an arm around Kurt’s waist to support him as they headed to the subway.

[present, 1987]

Blaine comes back to the house to find that Rachel has been by, true to her word. Not that he ever doubted her- he likes her. She is sweet, if a bit over the top sometimes, and he thinks that Kurt would like her too. Something in her energy reminds him of Kurt.

Blaine puts his work stuff away and makes himself a quick dinner before moving to the living room to watch the evening news. He turns the television on and settles onto the couch to watch.

It takes him a moment to register the familiar cushion behind his back. He stills as the soft yarn rubs against the back of his neck. He doesn’t have to look at it to see the gentle rainbow of colors woven into the yarn.

[September, 1982]

“Surprise!” Brittany says, smiling widely as she places a large, lumpy present in Kurt’s lap.

Kurt is surprised, looking at her with confusion.

“Britt, it’s not my birthday or Christmas or anything.”

“I know, but there’s never a bad time to presents.”

Santana re-enters the living room and sits on the couch on Brittany’s other side. Blaine follows after her, carrying a tray with snacks from the kitchen in Santana and Brittany’s small apartment.

“What’s that?” He asks, setting the tray down on the coffee table.

“I have no idea.” Kurt answers, poking the gift uncertainly. It gives an unnerving amount under his finger.

“It safe, all of us down at the center pitched in.” Santana said gently, resting her chin on Brittany’s shoulder.

Kurt tears carefully at the paper and it gives way to release a thick, rainbow squared quilt.

<https://c1.staticflickr.com/9/8487/8187617981_1aec6ca537_z.jpg>

“You mentioned a while ago that you’ve been having trouble staying warm, so Britt had the idea to make you a blanket. She mentioned it to one of the other women down there and everyone pitched in to make a square. We ended up only having to assemble it, it was pretty cool actually.”

Kurt stares down at the blanket in his lap and feels his eyes well up with tears. Blaine shifts behind him and wraps an arm around his middle, his chest pressing up against Kurt’s back. He presses a kiss behind Kurt’s ear and then ducks to press his head against the back of his neck, as overwhelmed as Kurt feels.

“Thank you, Britt.” He manages. Blaine tugs the blanket from his lap to wrap around his shoulders. The warm weight of it is an instant comfort.

“It’s like a hug, so even if any of us can’t actually be there, you can have a hug from us any time you want.” Brittany explains.

Kurt gives her a watery smile and immediately opens his arms and hugs her as tight as he can manage.

[Present, 1987]

Blaine pulls the blanket from the back of the couch and lets the familiar weight settle around his shoulders. He closes his eyes.

Pushes away the unhappy memories that come with the blanket.

(Washing the blood out, finding more blankets to pile on top of it, the day that they’d found chunks of hair caught in the yarn….)

He sits and lets it be the arms of his friends, wrapping him in a warm hug.

He’d thought that the blanket would hurt him, somehow, but all he feels is comfort.

[June, 1982]

Kurt wakes up and limps to the kitchen to find Blaine cooking breakfast. He leans on his cane (an upgrade from having to use a crutch!) and watches as his lover hums and dances around the kitchen as he cooks.

“Honey, you know I can make my own breakfast, right?”

Blaine spins around, smiling as he looks at Kurt.

“Of course! But I like spoiling you.”

“Too much. But I’m not going to complain.” Kurt says, moving the few feet to sit at the kitchen table.

Blaine catches him around the waist before he can sit, pulling him into a slow waltz, being careful of his weak leg. Kurt smiles as Blaine presses a kiss to his cheek.

“ _Every time I see you grin, I’m such a happy individual_ …” Blaine starts singing softly, pulling back to rest his forehead against Kurt’s.

Kurt humors him and sings along until they the scent of burned pancake batter catches their attention.

The bubble breaks as Blaine helps Kurt to his chair before running to dump the burned batch of pancakes into the sink and wave a towel frantically at the smoke detector.

Kurt just smiles warmly at the sight, chin in hand, letting the effusive happiness of the morning sink into him.

_Yeah and even when I'm old and gray_

_I'm gonna feel the way I do today_

_'Cause you make me feel so, yeah when I feel so_

_You make feel so young today, you make feel so young_ **_ [5] _ **

[Present, 1987]

When Rachel returns the next week, the blanket has been moved. It doesn’t seem to be anywhere in the living room or the closet when she checks. Mr. Anderson isn’t home, so she marches upstairs to look- it would be a crime for such a lovely piece of work to be stuffed away in a corner again.

She pushes open a door and finds the quilt spread across what is clearly Mr. Anderson’s neatly made bed. Something about the sight strikes a chord in her- the room is mostly a darker blue with accents of color. The quilt breaks the theme of the room wildly, and yet… it seems as though it also belongs there.

Mission a success, she shuts the door and goes about her business like usual.

[September, 1982]

Blaine had been concerned when Kurt had stopped wanting to shower with him. They haven’t had sex in a few weeks- Kurt citing everything from headaches to feigning sleep when Blaine tried to go any further than a kiss on the cheek- and Kurt has been avoiding him. Blaine can’t figure out why. His boyfriend has looked unusually pale and drawn the past week and he resolves to corner him after work that day and talk about what was going on.

When he gets back, Kurt’s already home, the shower running. Blaine takes off his coat and shoes and heads upstairs. By the time he’s undressed and put everything away the water is still running. He debates to himself for a minute before shucking off his briefs and making his way as quietly as possible over to the bathroom door. He cracks the door open, momentarily taken aback by the lack of Kurt’s voice drifting over the water. It takes him a moment to register the lack of humidity in the room.

“Kurt?”

He’s answered by silence.

Quickly he wrenches back the shower curtain, cursing loudly when he’s sprayed by freezing water. Kurt is curled in the bottom of the tub, arms wrapped around himself as he shivers violently. Blaine quickly shuts off the water and grabs one of their largest and fluffiest towels (for the first time being grateful for Kurt’s insistence on quality linens). He hauls Kurt out of the tub (it’s easier than it should be, considering that Kurt is slightly taller and broader than he is) and wraps him tightly in the towel, clutching him close as he sits on the bathroom floor. Kurt’s wet hair is dripping freezing droplets down his back from where his head is resting on his shoulder, but Blaine can’t bring himself to care. He rubs furiously at the towel, trying to warm Kurt up.

Kurt’s breath is cool against his neck and he continues to shiver in Blaine’s lap. He doesn’t respond to Blaine’s steadily more panicked questions. Blaine tries to stay calm; he’s not sure if he can carry Kurt as a dead-weight to the bed and he doesn’t want to try and then drop him. Quickly running through his options, he slides Kurt as gently as he can out of his lap and onto the floor before making a mad dash for the phone.

“Hello, 911?”

The kindly lady on the other end of the line talks him through the questions and then tells him that the ambulance is on it’s way. He tries not to break into hysterics as he hangs up the phone.

He runs back to the bathroom, shrugging on a thick terrycloth robe as he goes. Kurt is still lying on the bathroom floor, a faint tremble in his body the only movement. But the sight of his lover lying so still on the floor isn’t what stops him in his tracks.

There are dark spots on Kurt’s legs, splotchy and uneven. Like the ones that had been on Chandler’s arm, and David’s back, and that Sebastian had been so afraid of appearing.

He drops to his knees, and then when they give out he leans on the doorframe to keep himself from completely collapsing. His heart jumps up to his throat and then falls down to his gut. Oh God, oh God, Oh God….

The doorbell buzzes and he has to pull himself together to get up and let the EMTs in.

The next few hours are a blur, only snippets remaining clear in his memories. The one EMT pulling on thick rubber gloves with a wrinkled nose to that he didn’t have to touch Kurt’s skin, the painfully bright lights of the waiting room making his completely mismatched outfit garish, the bright red and white of the candystripers, the feeling of time stretching to last forever before his name is called.

The nurse warns him that the only reason he can come back is because he’s Kurt’s emergency contact and that some of the other staff might not be so welcoming, so it would be wise to contact Kurt’s family and have them get here as soon as possible. Her eyes are sympathetic.

Oh, Kurt’s parents. He hadn’t even thought to call them.

He follows her numbly down the halls- she says that her name is Grace and to give her a shout if he needs something- and they pass through doors marked QUARANTINE. Blaine can feel his heart beat heavier with every step he takes.

Kurt is lying still in the hospital bed, standard issue hospital blankets piled on top of him. An iv sticks out of his arm and a slow blip of a heart monitor accompanies his slow breaths. Blaine inhales sharply, his breath getting caught somewhere in his ribs.

“Can you… can you tell me what happened?” Please don’t confirm his worst fears.

“Of course.” Grace takes the clipboard off the end of his bed and flips a page. “It appears that he passed out in the shower- it’s guessed that because of his low body fat, the sudden change from hot water to cold caused him to pass out and he hit his head. That, compounded with his other diagnosis, meant that he just didn’t have enough energy left to get back up.”

Blaine forces himself to breath.

“Other diagnosis?”

Grace stares at him for a moment.

“Yes, Mr. Hummel was diagnosed with GRID one month ago. Did he not…”

Whatever else she says to him is drowned out with white noise as he sits down heavily in the chair next to Kurt’s bed. He can’t breathe. He can’t…. he……

The next thing he’s aware of is Grace helping him hold a paper bag to his mouth, her voice calm as she talks to him.

“There you go, Mr. Anderson, that’s it.”

Blaine manages to calm down enough to pull the bag away from his mouth. But not too far because of a horrible feeling of nausea has settled in his stomach.

Kurt’s going to die.

He feels that he should be angry, should want to be throwing things and spitting mad, yelling and cursing. But all he feels is numb and empty. Grace stays crouched next to him.

“Thank you.” He manages.

“It’s in my job, don’t worry about it.” Grace tells him. “I’m guessing that he didn’t tell you then.”

“No.” He says shortly.

“We have a wonderful grief counselor on staff here if you’d like her information.”

“Not… not right now. I’d just… I’d just like some time, please.”

“Of course. I’ll be back around in about an hour to check on him, he should be waking up by then. Anything else that you need, honey?”

Blaine tries to think through the thick haze of numbness.

“Where’s your nearest phone?”

Grace gives him directions (down the hall, and make a left) and then leaves them be, the door swinging shut behind her.

Blaine stares at Kurt’s still form on the bed. This is the second time he’s seen him in the hospital, and he knows that it won’t be the last. Minutes tick by and Kurt doesn’t stir. Blaine heaves himself up out of the chair and forces himself to walk down the hallway to the phone. The clink of the coins as they hit the bottom of the box echoes in his head. He dials slowly, focusing on one number at a time.

The phone rings for what feels like forever.

“’yello?”

Blaine’s tongue feels thick and cumbersome in his mouth.

“Burt. Um. You and Carole need to come to New York. Kurt’s, um, Kurt’s…”

He voice wavers dangerously.

“Kiddo, what’s going on?” Burt’s voice is strained.

“Kurt’s in the hospital, but he’ll be out in a day or two but… It’s.” He tries to gather his thoughts. “I don’t want to do this over the phone, when can you guys get here?”

“I’ll call the airport for flights as soon as I get off the phone with you, kid. Kurt’s okay though?”

No. “Yes. We’re just… he’s going to need you.”

“Alright, we’ll be on the next flight out. See you soon.”

Blaine hangs up and stares at the phone for a long while.

Then he drags his feet back down the hall.

He opens the door and sits in the chair by Kurt’s bed. He folds Kurt’s hand between his own two and presses a kiss to his knuckles (he doesn’t care who sees through the windows, he’s going to lose him and what else can the world take from him after that?).

After some time, Kurt’s hand moves in his own. Blaine watches as his faces scrunches up in discomfort and then relaxes as his eyes blink open. His bleary eyes meets Blaine’s wet ones and his face crumples as he processes where he is.

Blaine instantly wraps his arms around him, holding him tightly as he dares as they cry.

“I was going to tell you.” Kurt sobs into his shoulder. “I just… didn’t know how, and then I just kept delaying it and I didn’t want to get you sick too and…”

Blaine doesn’t say anything, just grips him tightly. Slowly the tears peter out and their breathing slows. The ugly thought that reared in Blaine’s mind jumps to the tip of his tongue. He pulls back, just enough so that he can look Kurt in the face.

“Kurt, I have to ask, I won’t be upset, I just need to know…” He hates himself for feeling that he has to ask. “Did you… did you sleep with someone else?”

Kurt looks as though Blaine had slapped him. He pulls back out of Blaine’s arms, tucking his arms around his own ribs as he folds in on himself.

“Of course not.” He half whispers. “How could you ask me that?” His voice breaks on the last word.

Blaine reaches out for him, but Kurt leans away, and his hand drops to the bed between them.

“Kurt, you know how it spreads. I needed to make sure that there wasn’t anyone else involved or at risk. Please. I didn’t mean that I thought you would ever do that. I just…” He trails off. A fresh wave of tears lodges at the base of his throat.

“I just found out that I’m going to lose you and I don’t know how to deal with that, and I’m so scared, Kurt, please don’t shut me out.” He chokes out.

Kurt reaches out for him this time, pulling him into his arms and leaning to lay back down. Blaine’s head rests on his shoulder- how had he not noticed how the hollows of his throat had grown so pronounced?- and he wraps himself around Kurt.

He sings softly as they hold each other as wishes more than anything that he could make the words true.

_Demons are prowling everywhere, nowadays,_

_I'll send 'em howling,_

_I don't care, I got ways. **[6]**_

[Present, 1987]

Rachel comes over that week to the rare occasion of Mr. Anderson still being home when she arrives. He’s sitting in the living room with papers and sheet music and several books spread across the table.

“Oh, hi, Mr. Anderson! I didn’t realize you’d be home today.”

“Hello, Rachel. It’s alright, it was a spur of the moment decision this morning.” His hair is tousled as if he’s run his hands through it several times, and he seems more well-rested than Rachel’s ever seen him. “Would you mind taking care of the kitchen for me? I know it’s a little more elbow grease than usual, but I’ll tack on a little more pay for the extra work.”

He gives her a sheepish look.

“I tend to indulge in breakfast when I stay home for the day. And I’m in the middle of a project so that only adds to it.”

Rachel laughs.

“I of all people understand what it’s like to be caught up in the whirlwind of the creative process, Mr. Anderson. It’s no problem.” And she’ll have enough money for the movies that weekend.

Mr. Anderson gives her a grateful smile and then sets back to scribbling away in his notebook. Rachel hums to herself and tackles the rather monstrous pile of dishes in the sink. What on earth had Mr. Anderson made this morning? A feast? Or maybe he’d had a guest over for the night. An emotional one night stand? A friend? A maybe a tragic romance that was never meant to be and his lover left at first light to catch a flight to Europe and they would never see each other again and…

She gets lost in her thoughts, mindlessly scrubbing at the dishes. Her humming peters out into quiet singing.

“ _Happy days are here again, Altogether shout it now, There's no one, Who can doubt it now, So let's tell the world about it now…”_

She doesn’t notice Mr. Anderson until she turns around to put the last of the plates away and she jumps.

“You scared me!” She says, pointing at him for emphasis.

He blinks, seeming to break out of a daydream.

“Sorry. I love that song. I… I knew a singer who sang the Judy part flawlessly. You two would have sounded lovely together.”

“Oh. Well. I’d be more than pleased to sing whenever you’d like. It’s what I’m going to do with my life after all.” Rachel dries her hands off. “What singer? I’m familiar with most of the names around the city, even if they were off-off-Broadway. It never hurts to be aware of potential colleagues.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t know him. He wasn’t actually a performer.” Mr. Anderson smiles sadly. “And he died several years ago. I wish you two could have met though, your musical tastes are so similar.”

“Well…” Rachel isn’t quite sure what to say. “He had excellent taste then.”

Mr. Anderson laughs.

“I should hope so. He was a clothing designer. Had his own boutique and everything.”

“He sounds like an interesting person.”

“He was. The most interesting person in all of New York, I was lucky to know him.” Blaine smiled sadly. He looks distant for a moment, before shaking himself. “But I didn’t come in here to reminisce the past. Actually I had a question for you, Rachel.”

Rachel flicks the towel she’d been using to dry the dishes out to dry and then sits at the kitchen table.

“Ok, go.”

“Would you sing your favorite song for me?”

Rachel was not expecting that to be the question, but gathers herself quickly.

“Of course, in here or can I go to the living room? And may I have a moment to warm up properly? I would hate to give you a mediocre performance, even if it’s off the cuff.”

“Sure, wherever you’d like and take whatever time you need. I’ll wait.”

“Thank you.”

Mr. Anderson smiles warmly at her and heads back into the living room. Rachel runs through a short version of her warmups and stretches.

She lets out a final breath and walks into the living room.

There’s only one song that she could ever perform.

She closes her eye, and opens them as a different person, orchestra echoing in her mind.

_Don't tell me not to live,_

_Just sit and putter,_

_Life's candy and the sun's_

_A ball of butter!_

She finishes, arms outstretched and chest heaving. She smiles widely and curtsies as Mr. Anderson applauds.

“Wow, Rachel. That was fantastic. Can I ask one more thing of you?”

“Sure.”

“Would you mind if I wrote a song for you?” When she doesn’t respond after a moment he continues. “That was the main reason behind asking you to sing, I always have people I’d like to write for perform their favorite song for me. It gives me an idea of performance style, where they’re comfortable vocally-“

Rachel holds up a hand.

“You-“ she points at him. “-want to write a song for me? An original song?”

“Yes, if you’d like. Some friends of mine have a cabaret night once a month or so where we premiere new songs, so you could even perform it if you’d want to.”

Rachel just barely manages to hold back a scream of excitement.

“Are you kidding me? I would love that, Mr. Anderson! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

She doesn’t manage to hold back dancing with delight around the living room, while Mr. Anderson looks on, bemused.

When she leaves shortly after, she feels like she’s walking on air.

Blaine watches her walk down the sidewalk for a moment as he waves, then shakes his head, smiling, and heads to the kitchen to put the old, yellow kettle on to boil.

[May, 1983]

The kettle whistling startles Blaine out of his thoughts from where he’s leaning against the counter. Kurt has had a lingering cough for a couple weeks and Elliot had sworn up and down that this tea from a local shop worked wonders. He pours the cups of tea and let them steep- strong smelling herbal tea for Kurt and jasmine for himself. He pulls the bags out and sets them aside and puts sugar in Kurt’s mug before carrying them out to the living room.

Kurt is laying on the sofa, head propped up against the arm with a pillow, rainbow quilt tucked up over his chest. It clashes rather magnificently with the hand-knitted beanie from Adam that covers his head as he dozes fitfully. Blaine sits on the edge of the sofa and sets his tea down on the table before nudging Kurt.

“Hey, I have your tea. The one that Elliot said to get.”

Kurt blinks tiredly and takes the mug that Blaine hands him.

“Mmmm, warm.” He says sleepily. Then he wrinkles his nose. “It smells weird.”

“I put a lot of sugar in it, don’t worry.”

Kurt lets out a relieved sigh. He lets the hot mug rest on his chest for warmth (and to the hide the shaking of his hands that he thinks Blaine doesn’t know about).

Blaine only lets himself hesitate for a second in staring at the bony knobs of his lover’s hands before tucking himself onto the sofa, lifting Kurt’s feet to drape his legs across his lap.

(It had been hard, earlier, when he couldn’t stop himself from staring at how thin the arms that used to be able to carry him across a room had gotten. When Kurt had stopped sketching he’d thought that it was just lack of energy or inspiration, but he’d soon realized that it was just because Kurt couldn’t hold the pens and pencils with a firm grip anymore.

“It’s a wasting sickness.” The doctor had said as gently as possible. “We don’t know much about it, but it isn’t going to be pretty. I hope you’re prepared for that.”)

He massages Kurt’s feet gently, knowing how easily they get cold now. Blaine had used to be the one with the cold feet all the time and now he jumps every time when Kurt unexpectedly shoves freezing toes against the small of his back in the middle of the night. Kurt tells him it’s payback for the years of cold toes against his legs.

Kurt hums happily and takes a sip of his tea. He makes a face at the mug and glares down at it.

“It’s not as horrible as usual, but it _still_ just tastes like Elliot found some mulch in the park and told you to boil it.”

Blaine laughs. They sit in comfortable silence for a long while, Kurt taking small sips of his tea and repressing faces while Blaine drinks his own (much more pleasant tasting) mug and reads the arts section of the newspaper.

“Hey, Blaine?”

Blaine looks up to find Kurt staring contemplatively into his mug of tea.

“When,” he takes a deep breath and straightens his back a little. “When I’m gone…”

Blaine shakes his head.

“No, no, we agreed that we wouldn’t talk like that.”

“Like what, Blaine? Like I’m not dying? Because I am.” Kurt snaps. “I didn’t exactly want to, you know, but I’d like to be able to come to terms with it before I croak.”

“I’m very aware of that, Kurt, I’d just rather not focus on it all the time! I-“

“You’d rather _not focus on it_?” Kurt hisses, his face white. “It’s nice that _you_ can step away from the situation, but I don’t get that luxury because guess what! Even if I leave the room I’m still sick! I still can’t walk to the bedroom or the bathroom without help, I don’t get the option to just not focus on it because I can’t _deal with it_ \- I _have to_ deal with it because I get no choice about it!”

He takes a breath to continue, but it turns into harsh coughing. Kurt reaches out to try and put his mug down on the table, but he’s shaking too hard. Blaine instantly reaches out and takes it from him, setting it down before kneeling and rubbing gently at Kurt’s back until the coughing dies down.

Kurt slumps back against the couch, catching his breath. The beanie slides out of place and exposes the dark lesion on his forehead- besides his thinning hair and constant chills it’s the main reason he’d taken to wearing the soft hats in the first place. Blaine kneels next to the couch and carefully folds Kurt’s hand between his own two, pressing gentle kisses to the thin skin of the back of it. He can see the faint lines of Kurt’s veins through his pale skin and thinks about how each beat pumping blood through them is so precious and so limited in number now.

“I’m sorry, love.” Blaine murmurs. “I didn’t… that’s not how I meant it.”

Kurt squeezes weakly at his hand.

“I know, but that’s how it feels, most of the time. Like… this sickness is part of me now and if you don’t want to deal with it, you don’t want to deal with me. I wouldn’t blame you.”

“God, Kurt, no, no. I could never just… _leave_ you.” The thought of it brings bile to the back of his throat. “I guess I just… don’t know what to say, so it’s easier not to say anything.”

He rests his cheek against the back of Kurt’s hand. The skin is still soft, despite the many IVs stuck into it. Kurt reaches his thumb out and rubs it gently against his cheekbone.

“I’d rather know that than to just not have you say anything, and stay at work for long hours.” Kurt’s voice cracks.

“Of course. Anything, love. I was going to talk to my boss about being home more for the time being anyway, I’ll do it tomorrow.”

Kurt turns to give him a watery smile, the hideous beanie on his head slipping to let a few locks of hair fall into his face.

Blaine thinks that he’s beautiful.


	2. Interlude

[past, Interlude]

 

When LeRoy first meets Hiram Berry, he hates him, because they are both twelve and Hiram purposefully made sure his Bar Mitzvah was the same Saturday as LeRoy’s so that all the kids in their class would go to his instead of LeRoy’s. (He didn’t, of course, but in a twelve-year-old’s world he absolutely did.) They avoid each other for the rest of middle school apart from glares exchanged down the hallways.

 

When they meet again they are both in college and LeRoy blushes bright red and sputters when he realizes that Hiram is flirting with him over drinks at a small bar where their student theater group had gone to celebrate their last performance.

 

A year later they move in together and celebrate quietly with some close friends.

 

They fight, like most couples do, and Hiram is louder and brasher than LeRoy and that scares him. Not scared of Hiram, Hiram was all bark and no bite and physical aggression disgusted him, but scared for him. LeRoy’s family had moved to New York when he was a kid, but he still remembered what the people of that small town would say about people like him and Hiram. What they would do.

 

(They’d both seen the riots and their aftermath- had both wanted to join them, but LeRoy’s fear and Hiram’s already shaky reputation in his workplace held them back. They had helped friends who were beaten or injured or needed a place to stay for a couple nights and spend the rest of their time wishing that they could do more without risking so much.)

 

Their first truly blow-out fight happens in the summer of ’71 and LeRoy always remembers it because it was so ung-dly hot in the apartment after the air conditioning unit broke, which hadn’t helped either of their tempers that day. He doesn’t remember what had sparked the argument in the first place, but remembers the eventual screaming match it had become and it ending with Hiram throwing a hasty pile of things into a suitcase and slamming the door behind him.

 

When LeRoy hears from a friend of a friend that Hiram’s staying with some friends out on Fire Island, he stays on the floor of the apartment for a week. (He’d have been properly dramatic about it and stayed curled up in bed, but it was just too hot.)

 

Hiram comes back two weeks later and they both cry and decide to make it work.

 

The next spring their friend Shelby shows up at midnight on a rainy April night, crying. She and her boyfriend (who Hiram had always had a vocal dislike of) had just broken up and she hadn’t told him that she was nearly three months pregnant.

 

(“I don’t even want to be a mother.” She had sobbed on their sofa, over hot cups of violet tea. “I’m an actress, what would I even do with a baby?” Hiram and LeRoy had looked at each other and made a decision.)

 

In December they name the baby, born with a shock of dark hair and already powerful lungs, Rachel. They love her instantly and LeRoy’s name goes on the birth certificate next to Shelby’s.

 

It isn’t until a couple months after Rachel’s first birthday that the first lesion shows up on Hiram’s chest.

 

His funeral ends up being on a grey Tuesday, one month before their daughter’s second birthday. It takes LeRoy nearly another year to begin thinking of Rachel as his daughter.

 

(It takes even longer than that to stop hating the small part of him that radiates relief at now being just a single father, instead of a father living with another man that with one well-placed rumor could have child protective services there to remove their daughter from an ‘unsafe and immoral’ environment, and relief at Rachel being far too young to have any knowledge of what was happening. His grief drowns out everything else out like white noise.)


	3. Part Two

[June, 1983]

The slow blip of the heart monitor is the grating on Blaine’s ears. He hates it as much as he fears it stopping.

Kurt’s breath is raspy and pained, his weak exhales barely fogging up the oxygen mask over his mouth. Blaine gently lifts his too-thin hand and kisses the back of it, holding it between his two warm hands in a vain attempt to rub warmth into Kurt’s thin fingers. Kurt’s eyes open slowly as Blaine’s lips linger.

“Hey baby.” Blaine murmurs.

Kurt manages a tired smile. His eyes are still blue, but no longer bright and clear like when they’d met. They’re milky and washed out, and he works to focus on Blaine’s face.

He pulls his hand free to rest it on Blaine’s face. Blaine feels the tears that have been so frequent catch at his chest again. He can’t bear it when Kurt looks at him like that. He turns his head to press another kiss to Kurt’s palm instead.

“I’dve married you, you know. If it was legal.” Kurt says calmly.

Blaine covers Kurt’s hand with his own.

“We can do that.” Blaine says, determined. “Someday we’ll be able to, you just have to get better and we’ll get married wherever you want.”

Kurt shakes his head gently, his soft laughter devolving into harsh coughs. Once they stop he takes a breath.

“Paris?” He asks impishly.

“On top of the Eiffel Tower, if that’s what you want.” Blaine says.

“I will not be so tacky as to get married on top of a giant metal penis, Blaine.”

The laughter catches Blaine by surprise. He laughs and Kurt grins cheekily.

Dr. Lopez comes in on the tail end of their laughing fit and quirks an eyebrow at them. Blaine just shakes his head.

“And how are you two doing today?” She says, by now used to their antics.

“Oh come on Santana, you know that probably better than we do.” Kurt says, still a little winded from their laughter. “But, if you really want to know, we were discussing getting married.”

She gives them an understanding look that turns considering.

“You know, I used to date the chaplain here, I’m sure he’d be willing to do me a favor if you two would like.”

Kurt stares at her, weighs his options. Blaine grips his hand.

“Let’s do it.”

“What?”

“Why not?” he shifts to an awkward half-kneeling posture next to the bed. “Will you, Kurt Hummel, love of my life, marry me?”

There are tears held back in Blaine’s eyes, and Kurt feels himself start to well up.

“Yes, of course, of course I’ll marry you.”

Blaine kisses him hard.

He runs down to the gift shop and finds two cheap plastic rings that only fit their pinky fingers. By the time he gets back a man with a pastor’s collar is standing next to Santana, his face impassive.

They join hands and look to Santana, who is trying to discreetly wipe a tear from her eye. She clears her throat.

The chaplain gives them an understanding smile.

“You two understand that according to the law of men, I can’t legally perform a marriage ceremony for you.”

Blaine grips Kurt’s hand tight.

“We are… very aware.”

“But spiritually, I would be honored to bless your union. The kingdom of heaven does not close its gates on anyone for love.” He continues, giving them another small smile.

Kurt doesn’t say that he doesn’t believe in God- hasn’t for a long time, and Blaine doesn’t say that he was raised with the words of the Torah on his tongue and the walls of his mother’s synagogue around him. If this is what they can have, they will take it and count it as something precious.

“Thank you.” Kurt says softly.

“Okay, okay.” Santana interrupts. “So, do you, Blaine Anderson take this man to be your totally illegal husband for however long he’ll have you?”

“I do.” Blaine says softly, staring at Kurt’s wet face.

“Do you, Kurt Hummel, take this mushy sad sack to be _your_ totally illegal husband for as long as you shall live?”

“I do.” Kurt smiles widely, pointedly ignoring the left out ‘both’ of Santana’s question.

“I pronounce you husband and husband.” The chaplain finishes, tracing a cross into the air in front of him to finish the ceremony.

Kurt is unable to stop the tears even as Blaine moves in to kiss him soundly.

[Present, 1987]

Rachel doesn’t mean to find the letter. It falls out when she pulls a record out of it’s cover. The loopy writing across the front is unfamiliar- Mr. Anderson’s handwriting is a neat and compact cursive, nothing like this.

She knows that she shouldn’t be reading it, but how is she supposed to resist a secret letter? She pulls the letter out of the envelope carefully. The paper is thick and yellowing faintly around the edges. A neat date of 5/6/83 is printed along on corner. The letter must be important for Mr. Anderson to still have.

 _My dearest Blaine_ , the letter starts.

[June, 1983]

He feels like he is the one dying slowly, like the very essence of vitality has been zapped from him.

He has to bury Kurt in Ohio, stick him in the ground that he’d hated so much, but Blaine knew that it wouldn’t be right to bury him away from his mother and brother. Kurt’s stepmom holds him as he breaks down in front of the grave, her soft arms a useless comfort. He can feel her tears falling onto his head as she kisses his hair and smoothes it down in a mechanical soothing pattern. Kurt’s father stands next to them, his face lined with grief and the weight of too much living.

Blaine had never met Kurt’s brother- he had been older than Kurt and had died in the war years before the two of them met. But the stories that Kurt, and later Burt and Carole, had told him sounded like he’d been a kind man. Blaine wished that they could have met.

He stares at the little line of gravestones with varying wear on them through his tears. Blaine doesn’t particularly believe in heaven or hell or anything, but it’s comforting to think of Kurt being somewhere with his mom and brother, instead of just _gone_.

He’s dimly aware of being gently lead out of the graveyard and into the car, getting back to the Hummel’s house and being tucked in in a comfortable bed.

(He doesn’t think about how his parents are less than an hour’s drive away and that they didn’t come to the funeral, or how the pastor that had baptized Kurt as a baby had refused to do the service for his death.)

He sleeps.

_If you ever leave, I’m sure you’ll come back home_

_Because I love you, I do, I do, I do……_ **_ [7] _ **

[Present, 1987, cont.]

_I gave this to Santana to give to you when you were ready for it. I would have given it to you but who knows what you’dve done with it. (Shush, you know that we’re both huge drama queens. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.)_

_So if you’re reading this, I’ve probably been gone for a while now… that doesn’t sound right. I’m not going to be **gone** , I’m going to be dead. Gone sounds like there’s a chance of me coming back._

Rachel covers her mouth with her hand. A letter written to Mr. Anderson by a dying lover- the drama of it was almost too much.

_So, I’m dead for I don’t know how long now and Santana has deemed you stable enough to give this to you._

_I’m writing this because when my mom was dying, she told me something that I wanted to tell you._

_It’s okay to be sad, Blaine. But it’s not okay to get stuck in it. It’s also okay to be happy, even if you feel like you should be sad. I don’t want you to be sad. Be happy, when you’re ready, don’t force yourself to keep grieving._

_(You as dramatic as I am… as I was? ... so I know that you’d let yourself get stuck in it like all of our favorite romantic heroes.)_

_Keep in touch with Dad and Carole okay? They really love you and you deserve to have a set of parents that actually care about you._

_We had a wonderful five years together and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I hope you wouldn’t either. You’ve made me happier than anything else in my life. I love you so much. You believe that we’re soulmates, but I can’t believe that because that would mean that I’m leaving you alone for the rest of your life. And you’re too good to not be loved, love._

_Blaine. My love, my dearest, my sweetheart. We got five years. I wish we could have met sooner and had more time together but I’m just glad to have met you at all in this big world. But we got five wonderful, wonderful years. You are going to have decades more to have new stories and meet new people (at least if I have anything to say about it. So help me only one of us can die a tragic early death or I’ll kill you myself.) and I hope that at least one of those people is someone you can fall in love with._

_Don’t make that face at me, I know it’s awful to think about now but in five? Ten? Twenty? Years it won’t be so inconceivable. You’re so easy to love, B, even if you don’t realize it._

_We made a lot of good memories together and now I want you to go on and make some more for yourself._

_Who knows, maybe your theory about multiple lives will hold true and we’ll meet again someday. Or not. Guess I’ll be the first one to find out._

_Love, love, love eternally,_

_Your Kurt._

There are a couple of odd blotches on the page and Rachel can’t help but think that they’re probably from tears like the ones that she can feel welling in her own eyes.

No wonder Mr. Anderson had things still hidden away in the closet- his lover had died tragically and slowly enough to be able to write him a letter.

Wiping her eyes, she sets the letter down on the coffee table and picks up the record. It was older, even with the eclectic mix on the shelves, and she hasn’t heard it before. With another sniff, she puts it on and sits down to listen.

How could she be expected to do work when she’d just been so emotionally moved?

It’s not until several songs in that the front door opens.

[June, 1983, continued.]

Blaine wakes up sometime later. The light is darker outside, so it must have been at least a couple hours. His body feels heavy and wrung out.

He slides out from under the blankets, grateful that they’d laid him out on the sofa in the living room, not Kurt’s old room like they… were he’d usually stayed when they visited. He drags one of the soft knitted blankets around his shoulders and pads into the kitchen, following the sound of quiet voices.

He stops suddenly in the doorway. There’s a man sitting at the table with Carole and the sight of him makes the tears well again in Blaine’s eyes. They stop talking when they see Blaine and the man makes an aborted motion to stand up.

“Coop?” Blaine whispers. His brother is up as soon as he hears the wobble in Blaine’s voice. He instantly crushes Blaine in a hug, blanket and all.

“Oh, squirt, why didn’t you tell me? Carole here called me and told me what happened.”

Blaine buries his face in Cooper’s shoulder, his breath hitching.

“After…. After mom and dad….. I didn’t think that you’d want to hear from me anymore.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not mom or dad, huh, B?”

He stays with the Hummels for the rest of the week, and Cooper, staying at his nearby house, is over nearly as much as Blaine.

Blaine know that he can’t go back to New York, not yet. At least not to stay. Cooper tells him quietly that he has a house out in California an hour outside of L.A. with a spare room if he wants it. He jumps at the opportunity.

He calls works, explains, but thankfully his job can be done from anywhere (postal service willing) and his boss is sympathetic and tells him to take all the time he needs. He calls his landlord and tells him that he’s not going to be back for a while and could he please forward his mail?

He goes to California- lets the sun soak into his skin, lets the thankful lack of memories swallow him up.

Lets the sand scrub him smooth and clean, lets the dry, thin air take the curl from his hair, and the blissful smell of clean scrubbed air cleanse him from the smog and dirt of the city and the sterile coarseness of the hospital that had sunk into his lungs and begun to choke him.

For the first time in nearly two years he finally relaxes and lets himself just be.

***

New York is too gritty and gray and _present_ for him to stomach yet. There’s a heaviness in the concrete and chrome there that sinks into his bones and weighs him down that doesn’t exist in the cool warmth of the California sun.

Blaine stays in Cooper’s house in San Francisco and it’s nice enough. He ends up taking up walking around the city- up and down more than around if he’s honest with himself. He finds all kinds of interesting places in the city from restaurants to art galleries to secret playgrounds. He gives in a buys a bike after a month. He gets to know their, well, Cooper’s neighbors-down-the-block Jan and her girlfriend Liz who are only a little older than he is. Sometimes they show him around the city- the safe places to go and the places to avoid, the support center, the small memorial park that he spends too much time at.

He doesn’t tell them about Kurt. Sometimes it lays thick as honey on the tip of his tongue when they are talking about current politics or rumors from a friend of a friend and he wants to say that he knows better than them what the crisis is like. But he doesn’t. Jan and Liz both volunteer at a local shelter/clinic and let Blaine know that he’d be welcome any time but he doesn’t take them up on it.

He winds up spending a lot of time on the beaches. They are cooler and grittier and windier than the beaches he is used to on the East coast. People don’t often stay long on them save for days where it is exceptionally nice out, so he’s left along for the most part.

Other days he bikes to the park and lets the calm, fresh scented quiet of the pine grove sooth his mind.

Some days he can’t help but think how much Kurt would have loved this place.

But slowly there are more days where he can enjoy it for himself.

**

He stumbles across a small tattoo parlor on one of his exploration days.

It’s a tiny, hole-in-the-wall place, but it’s bright and clean and bells chime softly somewhere in the shop as he pushes open the door. A moment later a woman with a bright blue colored shag cut appears behind the tiny counter.

“Hello there, can I help you?”

“Hi, um.” Blaine glances around the room again. “I think that I want a tattoo?” His voice rises unsurely at the end.

The woman leans against the counter and props her chin up on her hand to look at him.

“You think or you do? There is no try, young jedi, especially with tats.” She looks at his lost expression before waving a hand to beckon him further into the store. “C’mere, let’s talk about this.”

They sit in a couple rickety chairs and she introduces herself as Dani ‘with an I, not like the boy’.

“So,” she says, slapping a hand against her thigh. “Why are you interested in a tattoo?”

Blaine thinks about it.

“I… I don’t want to worry about forgetting. I want to be able to carry a memory around with me.”

“Care to tell me what memory? You don’t have to, but I want to be sure that you aren’t doing something on a spur of the moment and making a mistake.”

“Oh, um.” He swallows. “I’m from New York, actually, I’m just in town staying with my brother for right now. I have… a lot of baggage back there right now and I’m not ready to deal with it just yet I guess.”

“My girlfriend is from the Big Apple.” Dani says with a frankness that surprises Blaine. “She likes it out here so much better though- says that the people are as cold as the weather out there and couldn’t deal with it. I’m from LA though and have never been farther east than the mountains for some snowboarding.” She shrugs. “If I were you, I’d leave some of that baggage here instead of hauling it around all the time.”

Blaine lets out a small laugh. Dani looks bemused.

“Sorry,” Blaine says. “It’s just… you remind me a lot of my friend Elliot back home. He talks the same way. Runs a yoga studio instead of a tattoo one though.”

Dani grins.

“Different people relieve stress in different ways I guess.” She lets her expression become serious again. “About you wanting a tattoo. I’d like you to take at least a few days to think about it, even a week or two so that you don’t rush into something permanent like this, alright?”

Blaine nods. It makes sense- he’s never even considered getting a tattoo before today. Kurt was the- his breath catches in his chest like it always does when he has to readjust to past tense- Kurt had been the more adventurous of the two of them and had a small tattoo from a very drunken night out with Santana when they were younger.

The little bell signaling that someone has entered the shop dings cheerfully and Dani stands up.

“Hope that you figure it out, Blaine. Nice meeting you.”

“You as well, thank you for the advice.”

She waves him off and heads to the front to see what the next customer needs.

*******

Blaine is back a week later, determined. He’d thought and thought about it and the more he did the more it had appealed to him. He’d even come up with a sketch of a design.

The bell rings happily from the back as he walks into the shop and Dani appears a moment later. Her hair is green tipped this week. She smiles when she sees him.

“Took my advice?”

“Yes. I really do want to- I even have a kind of terrible sketch. And some pictures for reference.”

“Alright let’s go to the back and see what we’re working with.”

They sit down at the little booth where Dani keeps miscellaneous tools and drawing materials. Blaine explains the concept of the idea to her and hands her the pictures he’s found. She takes them and looks them over as she listens.

“Alright,” she nods slowly. “I think I can work with this.”

She sketches out the idea much better than Blaine had and they make tweaks and adjustments until he’s satisfied.

“This is going to take a while.” She warns him. He shrugs.

“I don’t have anywhere to be.”

Since getting to California Blaine has fallen out of his usual bodyscaping practices and he swears loudly at the sting of the wax strips that Dani applies to the section of his chest he’d wanted to use. She finishes prepping him and moves to preparing her tools. She chats with him throughout the process, partially explaining what she’s doing and partially talking about her life.

Blaine finds out that she’s part of a roller derby team, her girlfriend is a surfer, and that she’d started this business herself a few years ago.

“’k, I’m going to start now, it’s going to sting, so let me know when you need a break, okay?”

Blaine nods and Dani leans over his chest, needle buzzing.

A couple of hours later, Dani declares it done and helps Blaine sit up to take a look in the mirror she holds up. Blaine touches gently at the edge of the reddened skin.

“It’s perfect, thank you, Dani.” He says softly.

A couple inches below his collarbone on the left side, just above where the romantics insist the heart sits, now rests a rainbow colored outline of the New York skyline over which soars two small, black birds.

Dani puts ointment and a bandage on it once he’s finished looking and walks him through how to take care of it. He hugs her gingerly, mindful of the soreness of his chest.

She smiles widely and he leaves the shop.

(He tries to find it the next time he visits Cooper, but the building where it had been is now a technology store and oddly no one he asks seems to remember there ever being a tattoo parlor there. He guesses that Dani must have moved her business somewhere else and glances down at his chest to make sure that his tattoo is still there.)

[Present, 1987]

Blaine comes home to music pouring from the living room, which is not unusual, but the record choice make him freeze with his hand still clenches around the doorknob.

The song fades out and he knows the next one, he knows and he knows that he can’t deal with it, not yet not… but he can’t move from the doorway.

_It's just like heaven_

_Being here with you_

_You're like an angel_

_Too good to be true_

Rachel’s lilting soprano doesn’t accompany the song like usual, but the memory of a different voice singing the words in his ear more than makes up for it.

Blaine forces himself to walk into the house. He’d been doing so _well_ , everyone had said so, he’d thought so. He’d been _coping_ , he’d been _living_ , he’d been _moving on_ goddammit….

He makes it to the entrance of the living room before stopping again. Rachel is sitting on the sofa, tears on her face. An open letter sits on the coffee table in front of her. A letter that he’d read and creased and cried over more times than he could count. He knew the folds of that paper almost as well as the back of his own hands at this point.

Rachel looks up and sees him. She looks stricken, as though her own heart has been broken.

“Rachel,” He’s amazed at how steady his voice sounds. “Where did you get that letter?”

She sniffs and wipes at her cheeks.

“I promise I wasn’t snooping around, Mr. Anderson, it just fell out when I was looking for a record to put on for today. It was tucked in the cover for this one and I….”

“You thought that you would just read a clearly private letter that wasn’t addressed to you?” It comes out much harsher than he’d intended it to. The song continues to warble on in the background, drilling into his ear and bringing up memories that he doesn’t want to relive right now.

“I’m really sorry, Mr. Anderson, I didn’t… I won’t say anything, I promise, I…”

He walks over to the coffee table and picks up the letter, carefully folds it back up, and tucks it into the envelope. His fingers linger on the gentle swoops of Kurt’s handwriting.

“I’m not… I’m not mad at you for reading it, Rachel.” He swallows down the hot lump in his throat. “I’m upset because this,” he shakes the letter for emphasis. “is the last thing, the last communication that I ever got to have with him. And if anything happened to it I wouldn’t, I would never…. That would be lost, forever.”

Rachel watches him, still wiping away stray tears. The song ends and the record whirs onto the next one.

Blaine turns away and walks over to the record player. He lifts the needle and turns the machine off before lifting the record off of where it rests. He finds himself stuck, staring at it in his hands, the warm plastic weight of it. The last time he listened to it was reading that letter two years ago. His therapist had recommended packing up everything that reminded him of Kurt that kept him from moving forward. He had. He thought that he’d packed up his emotions with the cardboard boxes, but they were clearly just as close to the surface as they had been before.

The hurt and anger burns suddenly hot and his hands clench around the fragile record. The weight of what he’d lost falls back down on his shoulders and he flings the record away from himself with a quiet yell. It hits the wall with a thunk and disappears behind the couch. Rachel jumps and ducks, even though it hadn’t been near her.

He drops the letter and rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“I am so, _tired_ ,” he says hoarsely. “of pretending like I’m not angry all the time. Because I am, dammit. Not at you, Rachel. At everything, I think. Mad at the damn city that got him sick, and at the government who are content to sit on their asses because who cares if a few hundred fucking faggots die? It doesn’t affect them.” He hears Rachel suck in a breath. “I’m mad because I’ve been so many funerals over the past few years that I lost count around the sixtieth one. I’m mad because I’m scared all the time that I’ll lose another friend because they either get this hellish disease or because they get beaten to death for daring to hold hands with someone they love or because they just can’t take it anymore and decide that a long fall off a bridge if the better option than waiting around to die and I just…”

Blaine’s voice cracks and he loses what words he’d had. A soft hand touches his shoulder and Blaine jerks away before he can think. His hands drop and he opens his eyes to see Rachel standing next to him, looking even more heartbroken than she had before.

“You don’t sound mad,” she says quietly. “you sound very, very sad.”

He tries to take a quick breath in but it catches in his throat like sharp glass instead. He puts an arm out to steady his suddenly weak joints against the wall. The bright colors from the stained-glass window shine over his fingers cheerfully. Kurt had loved that window, it had been one of the selling points of the house.

“He’s dead.” He says, voice cracking horribly. “He died and I had to watch and I don’t ever… I never get to see him again, but everything still reminds me of him and…”

Blaine slides down to the floor, his attempts to brace himself against the wall failing.

“He’s gone, forever, and I’m just stuck here. Without him. And I don’t know if I’ll ever recover from that.”

He sits there for a long moment. His own breathing is unnaturally loud in his ears and he’s suddenly very aware of Rachel still standing there. He covers his face with his hands, surprised to find his cheeks wet.

“Fuck.” He mutters.

[August, 1983]

Two months after Kurt dies, he runs into their neighbor, Walter, while getting the mail. Walter is about their age, married, with two young kids that Blaine sees coming home from school every once in a while. He’s nice enough, they’d had dinner with the family a couple of times, but nothing had ever come of it.

“Hey, Blaine.” Walter says cheerfully. “How are you?”

Blaine stares at him. He doesn’t know how to answer that question. There’s a black hole eating away at his life and the part of him that’s still in pain wants ask Walter how _he’d_ feel if he’d had to watch his wife slowly die for a year and half.

“I’ve been better.” He says eventually. “How are you?”

“Good, good. The kids are involved in the school play, so Elaine and I have been running around like crazy to keep on schedule.” He lets out a short laugh, and Blaine twitches the corner of his mouth.

“Say,” Walter continues, glancing past Blaine to his front door. “Where’s that roommate of yours? I haven’t seen him around. He move out?”

Blaine sucks in a sharp breath, the cold air catching in his throat.

“No, um.” He steels himself. “He died, a couple months ago. He’d been sick for a long time. And he wasn’t my roommate. Fiancé, actually.”

He gropes behind him for the doorknob so that he can retreat into his house.

“Blaine, I…” Walter seems lost for words. “I’m sorry to hear that. If there’s anything me and the missus can do, please let us know.”

“Of course, thank you.” Blaine manages, before he slams the door shut and clutches the few letters he’d grabbed to his chest as he sink to the floor.

Blaine doesn’t cry. His eyes ache like they want to, but he just stays sprawled on the floor until he feels steady enough to stand up. He makes himself a cup of tea and clutches it and wishes that his hands would stop shaking.

[Present, 1987]

Mr. Anderson sits on the living room floor, unmoving, and leaving Rachel at a loss. Quietly, she picks the letter up and puts it back on the coffee table before walking out of the living room. She puts the battered yellow kettle on to boil and pulls down a mug for tea.

Rachel makes a mug of jasmine tea for Mr. Anderson and carries it out to the coffee table in the living room. She feels as though she should leave, but doesn’t know if Mr. Anderson should be alone. He lifts his head at the sound of the mug clicking against the smooth wood of the table.

“Mr. Anderson…”

“I used to be big on photography, you know.” He didn’t seem to hear her speak, his eyes fixed on the steaming tea. “Took pictures everywhere I went of everything I could. Scrapbooked too. And then everyone just… started dying. All my friends that I had so many pictures of were suddenly just… gone. The pictures were the only things left to prove that they’d been there at all. I kept taking pictures- all those people didn’t deserve to be forgotten, wiped out of existence. I would remember them if no one else would. But memories, Rachel, memories are some of the heaviest things we carry with us. And I couldn’t do it. Not for that many people. I filled three scrapbooks up with just pictures of friends that had died over less than two years. Sometimes it made me furious, because Kurt-“

His voice cracks weakly over the name. Rachel slowly sits down on the sofa.

“Kurt died before they even really had a name for what was killing him. What was killing us. Another part of me was glad, because he didn’t have to watch all our friends die with me. He wouldn’t have been able to handle it, not when he’d already had to deal with so many other people dying on him. I took so many pictures of him- I think that even if I didn’t want to believe it, there was so part of me that knew he wasn’t going to be around much longer. I must have dozens of rolls of film that I’ve never had developed.”

He reaches out and wraps his hands around the mug of jasmine tea, resting it on top of one bent kneecap.

“Thank you, for the tea. I… I didn’t mean to scare you, before. I am sorry. I don’t… Part of the reason that I needed someone to come in and help me with the house is because I attend funerals. It’s part of the reason I’m out so much. Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, most weeks there are funerals to go to. Most times I know them, at least a little, or I go because friends of mine are going or because they need someone to play music. I do it for free if I know they were a victim of AIDS.”

The word sits ugly and harsh on his tongue. Rachel sits still, just listening.

“It not a pretty thing, Rachel. Not a romantic way to die.” He takes a sip of tea. “It hollows out the people that you love and leaves them as bones and sores and you with nothing. You asked me once why I arrange poems instead of writing original lyrics. I am afraid of what will come out if I let myself write my own words.”

Mr. Anderson stops talking. He seems… smaller, somehow, sitting with his back against the wall and holding his tea cupped between two hands. Rachel shifts, sitting up taller.

“Well, that’s the thing about emotion, isn’t it?” He looks at her, weariness in the lines of his face. “That’s why music exists- the emotion builds and builds and grows inside you until it becomes too much and you have to push it away from you because you just can’t bear it.” She closes her eyes and half-lifts her hand to press against the air. She drops it after a moment and opens her eyes. “It’s why I sing. I can sing my feelings better than anything else. But,” she slides off the sofa to sit next to Mr. Anderson on the floor. “if you don’t push your emotions out and away from you, and just push it down inside of you, it doesn’t stop growing. It just loses space to grow so it gets bigger and bigger and pushed more and more down, which only makes it that much worse when it finally gets out. Emotions are meant to be felt, not stopped. That’s why I try and feel everything to the most that I can, I can’t be a great actress if I don’t have a good arsenal of emotional experiences to draw from.”

Mr. Anderson gives her an odd look- almost like he wants to cry or laugh and can’t make up his mind.

“Thank you, Rachel. Um,” he looks down at his cooling tea. “You don’t have to stay, I don’t want you to feel like you have to…”

“It’s fine, Mr. Anderson. I had a couple things to finish up when you got back anyway.” She says briskly. In truth she would rather leave and be able to work through her emotions, but she would feel rather bad leaving Mr. Anderson in such a state. “Is there anyone I can call for you? It’s better to have people around after emotionally draining experiences.” Or so her therapist had said.

“Oh, it’s alright, Rachel. Thank you- I promise I’ll have a friend over for dinner once I’ve cleaned up a little, alright?”

She holds out a pinky with a very serious look on her face. Mr. Anderson huffs but hooks his pinky around hers and they shake once.

Rachel goes to collect her things and put away what had been left on the list.

Blaine stares in the general direction of where the phone sits in the hall. He doesn’t really want to be around anyone at all, but he knows that Rachel is right and from past experiences he know that being alone in this mindset never leads to good things. He debates if Elliot or Santana would be better company at the moment.

Rachel pokes her head back into the living room to say goodbye and he manages to pull together a weak smile for her, letting it fall back into contemplation as the front door closes behind her.

He sighs.

///

When Rachel arrives home from work and curls up next to her father on the sofa he asks her what the problem is.

She tells him about Mr. Anderson, the letter that she’d found, and the story that he’d told her. It’s the quietest and most somber that LeRoy’s ever known his daughter to be.

He thinks about telling her about the man in her baby pictures, the truth about her ‘Uncle’ Hiram. Considers telling her all the true harshness of the world- but can’t bring himself to do it. Instead he gets her a glass of water (a habit of Hiram’s that he’d picked up long ago), holds his daughter close, and lets her be sad.

[Present, 1987]

The next time Rachel comes over M. Anderson presents her with a few sheets of paper, with an apologetic expression on his face. Rachel takes the papers curiously.

When she realizes what it is she gasps and looks at him excitedly.

“Is this my song?”

He smiles.

“It is. With completely original lyrics. I’d be honored if you would sing it at the cabaret my friends and I host at the end of the month.”

Rachel beams at him and just barely resists bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet.

“I would love too, Mr. Anderson! Thank you!” She hugs him tightly for a moment before pulling back to look at her song- _her song!_. She looks up again, beaming. “Can my dad come to the show?”

“Of course, I’ll call and talk to him about it myself.”

Weeks later, Rachel is waiting outside of the small venue with her dad, both of them dressed to the nines. Mr. Anderson appears a few minutes later and greets them before ushering them inside.

Mr. Anderson shows them to the table where their chairs are and they set down their belongings as people start arriving. Mr. Anderson is in the middle of making sure Rachel knows the order of events when someone taps his shoulder. He turns around and smiles widely as he’s engulfed in a strong hug.

“’Cedes! I’m so glad to see you, I wasn’t sure if you’d be in town or not.”

“I’ll be in town anytime you need me, you know that, sweetcheeks.” She says, pressing a red-lipped kiss to his cheek.

Rachel tugs at his sleeve, eyes very wide. Blaine looks at her bemused as she tugs him aside for a moment.

“Mr. Anderson, that is _Mercedes Jones_.” She hisses in his ear, trying desperately to sound calm.

“Yes, I am aware.” He says, clearly confused. “She’s a dear friend of mine, I’ve been friends with her and her husband for years.”

Rachel stares at him.

“Who _are you_?” She asks, amazed. “You want me to sing in front of one of my _musical idols_ who you happen to be good friends with!?”

Mr. Anderson just smiles.

“Would you like me to introduce you? She’s very nice, I promise.”

Rachel stares at him. Her mouth opens and closes without her saying anything. Mr. Anderson steers her back over to where Mercedes is chatting with some other people. She pauses when he comes back over.

“Mercedes, I have someone that I’d like to introduce to you. This is Rachel Berry. She’ll be debuting a new song of mine tonight.”

Mercedes smiles at Rachel and extends a hand towards her.

“It’s nice to meet you, Rachel. I look forward to hearing you sing, Blaine here has said that you’re wonderful.”

Rachel blushes and shakes her hand, stunned.

“Thank you. I’m a big fan, Ms. Jones, so that means a lot to me since you’re a musical icon.”

Mercedes chuckles.

“Well, thank you, sweetie.”

More people begin arriving and they find their seats at the tables around the room as the soft chatter around the room swells with acquaintances running into each other. Rachel’s head spins at the amount of famous and semi-famous in the room that seem to know Mr. Anderson. She’d known that he was somewhat well known, but not the true length that his connections seemed to reach.

The microphone on the small stage up front squeals harshly as a tall woman taps it to focus the room. She smiles widely as everyone in the room flinches and turns to look at her.

“Hello darlings, it’s so good to see all of you here. For the few people that for _some_ reason don’t know me, I am Unique. My dear friend Blaine Anderson asked if I would host tonight’s cabaret and of course I said yes because who can say no to that handsome face?” Unique points and winks towards their table where Mr. Anderson is sitting and he blushes a little and smiles. “Now this is a casual event, don’t be nasty, everyone is here to sing and have a good time. So to start everything off right, I have been instructed to bless you all with a performance of my own. So let’s start this night off right, with a great favorite of mine.”

The lights dim and Unique adjusts the microphone as the piano player begins a slow introduction. Unique closes her eyes and begins to sing.

Rachel can feel the hairs of her arms stand up as she listens, getting lost in the music. It was a ballad, not one that she was very familiar with. The songs builds slowly and Rachel is enraptured.

_Daylight, I must wait for the sunrise_

_I must think of a new life_

_And I mustn't give in_

_When the dawn comes, tonight will be a memory too_

_And a new day will begin_

Unique holds the last note until it fades into nothing and the silence it evokes echoes around the room. The applause is sudden and loud as the audience cheers for Unique. She smiles and bows. Mr. Anderson leans over to Rachel.

“She’s good, isn’t she?”

“No, Mr. Anderson,” Rachel can’t look away from the stage. “She’s amazing.”

The evening is relaxed and people sing beautifully on the stage. A natural sort of intermission eventually falls and people stand to mill around, chat, and gets drinks from the bar on the far side of the building.

Mr. Anderson steps onto the stage and gently taps the mike to get people’s attention. His friends and colleagues look around and then head back to their seats.

“Thank you so much for coming everyone, it’s so great to see all of you. Next month’s cabaret is being held at Unique’s club-“ Unique waves and smiles as people look over at her. “so I expect to see you there! And now I’d like to introduce to you someone very special.” He smiles over at Rachel and gestures to her to come up. “This is Rachel Berry and she’s going to be a singing a new song of mine tonight or you all. She is a wonderful young performer and I expect that you will be seeing her name a lot in the future once she takes Broadway.”

He smiles at Rachel and she waves to the audience as they applaud quietly for her. Mr. Anderson puts a hand on her shoulder.

“Ready?”

Rachel nods confidently. Mr. Anderson pats her shoulder and moves to sit at the piano to wait for her cue to begin.

Rachel takes a deep breath to get rid of the butterflies in her stomach as she adjust the mike stand. She closes her eyes to ground herself, then lifts her head and looks at Mr. Anderson with a nod. He begins the soft introduction and she looks out to the audience.

And she sings.

[May, 1996]

Pounding on the door nearly makes him drop the dishes he’s washing. Quickly he puts them down and strips off his rubber gloves.

“I’m coming, I’m coming! Don’t knock the door in.” He yells.

Opening it, he finds himself with an armful of woman.

“Blaine!” She grins and squeezes him tightly.

“Tina! Oh my God I thought you guys weren’t back for another month?” He hugs her back tightly.

Tina was one of the actresses that had been in one of the first musicals he’d help write years ago. They’d hit it off and become best friends. She and her husband, Mike- who she’d also met during the musical, he’d been their choreographer- had been on their second honeymoon for the past couple of weeks.

“We were, but wanted to come home sooner, since our plans were so flexible.”

He lets her go and steps aside to let her in as she tells him about some of their trip to Canada. They end up in the kitchen, chatting.

“Oh! That reminds me.” Tina says suddenly. “I got us tickets to see this new musical that I’ve heard great reviews about. They had to move it to a new theater last month just to be able to seat all the people!”

“Oh? What’s it about?” Blaine asks, pulling his gloves back on to finish the last few dishes. He’s been working on compositions of his own and overseeing rehearsals and so is a little out of the musical gossip loop.

“I’m not entirely sure, actually. It’s a rock musical though, and takes place in the East Village. Maria wouldn’t tell me a lot about the plot, just that I should go see it. It could be garbage for all I know, but I have tickets for tomorrow night, please please please please come? You’re my only friend who truly understands my musical needs.”

She clasps her hands dramatically and pouts. Blaine chuckles.

“Sure, where and when? Dinner or not?”

“Yes!” She puts a fist of celebration in the air.

They agree to have a quick dinner before the evening show and Tina leaves a little later, promising that they’ll have more time to catch up later.

Blaine puts away the clean dishes and shakes his head.

///

They get dinner at a little Korean restaurant that Tina swears is as close to the real thing as you can get in America. Blaine believes her because she’s been there and also the food is delicious. It’s a short walk to the subway and then from the station to the Nederlander and the spring air is almost pleasant under the ever-present city-smell.

The theater is small, but promisingly full. Blaine reads his program, skipping the summary and character introductions so that he’s not spoiled for the plot, and reads the actor biographies. He’s not familiar with the names as he scans down the list- which means that there’s a fifty-fifty chance of them being horrendous or fantastic. At least until he gets to the seventh name. Then he smiles and leans over to Tina.

“It’s going to be a great show.”

“How do you know?”

He taps the program.

“I know this actress and she’s amazing- she also would never hang her star on any show that was less than excellent.”

Tina grins at him and they sit back as the lights of the theater go down.

Blaine and Tina laugh as they are introduced to Roger and Mark- Tina leans over as Rodger broods over his guitar and whispers in Blaine’s ear “Is it just me, or does he remind you of Sam?” and Blaine has to clap a hand over his mouth to stop from snorting.

And then on stage a man in an alley is mugged and a street performer stops and asks if he’s okay in a high, clear voice. Something in Blaine goes still. Tina squeezes his hand as they sing to each other.

They are riveted to the stage as the show continues.

Blaine doesn’t realize that he’s crying until Tina wraps her arms around him and rests her own damp cheek on his shoulder. He lifts a hand and grips tightly to her forearm as the rounds of _Will someone care ring_ through the theater. The short scene ends and the cast moves onto another but Blaine feels as though he’s been sucker-punched in the gut and had a great weight lifted off of him at the same time.

Tina whispers to find out if he’s okay and he pats her arm reassuringly.

They sway gently together as they watch Angel and Collins sing together, dancing down the stage with their high-falsetto and smooth baritone blending sweetly. Blaine allows himself a moment to reminisce on the duets that he had sung with Kurt, his own high-voiced fashion star, and finds that it doesn’t hurt.

When Rachel Berry takes the stage and shouts the house down about Diet Coke and entices the audience to moo with her, Blaine grins widely through the tears left and actually has to clap a hand over his mouth to muffle his laughter as she stares out at them wildly.

Intermission is a much needed emotional reprieve and all too quickly the lights flash to get them back to their seats.

They sit, rapt, as the second act begins.

Blaine and Tina both whoop and cheer for the vocal prowess on stage as Joanne and Maureen’s relationship dramatically implodes in front of their friends. Blaine feels a swell of pride as he thinks back to how Rachel had used to practice her vocal runs until they were perfect.

A couple scenes later and the mood changes- something twists in Blaine’s gut.

Angel dies in Collins arms and Blaine feels his own shattered heart beat back at him from the stage as Collins sings over his lover’s coffin.

He sobs silently in his seat as Tina holds him.

The tears don’t stop until they join in the standing ovation, his heart beating hard with the knowledge that _they live they live they live._

They exit the theater proper and, after finding a bathroom to clean up their tear-stained faces, Blaine tugs Tina towards the backstage doors. The weedy stagehand assigned to keep people from barging back to the actors stops them.

“I’m a friend of Rachel Berry’s, could you tell her that Blaine Anderson would like to see her?”

The stagehand rolls his eyes and vanishes behind the doors. A few minutes later the door opens again and Rachel pokes her head out, smiling widely when she spots Blaine.

“Mr. Anderson! Please, come on back.” She holds the door as they enter the narrow hallway and then immediately pulls him into a tight hug. “It’s so good to see you!”

She lets him go and holds out a hand to Tina and they introduce themselves.

They make their way back to a small dressing room and Rachel is sharing with one of the chorus members. He looks up as they enter, in the middle of taking off his stage make-up.

“Wes, this is my old friend Mr. Anderson and his friend Tina Cohen-Chang. Mr. Anderson, Tina, this is Wes, he’s one of the ensemble members and the understudy for our Angel.”

Wes waves at them from his seat as he finishes getting foundation off his chin. He squints at Blaine for a moment before his eyes go wide.

“You aren’t Blaine Anderson are you?”

“That’s me.” Blaine is politely confused- he’s fairly well known in the musical world, but not often confronted with fans.

“You were in the Dalton Academy Warblers!” Wes gasped. “You were a legend when I was in school, it’s such an honor to meet you. I was a member of the Warbler Council my junior and senior year.”

Blaine raises his eyebrows and subtly elbows Tina to stop her laughing

“It’s always a pleasure to meet a fellow Warbler alum.” He tells Wes. “You were great out there, by the way.”

Wes beams at him before continuing to finish getting out of costume. Blaine turns back to Rachel and Tina to find Rachel looking politely confused and Tina stifling quiet giggles behind her hand. Blaine discreetly flips her off behind his back.

Rachel shows them her table and the costumes, stepping behind a curtain briefly to change. Wes finishes packing up his stuff and says his goodbyes- somewhat breathlessly to Blaine. Tina manages to stave off her giggles until the door shuts behind him and Blaine shakes his head.

Rachel finishes changing and cleaning up, chatting with them as she does. She and Tina find a common ground in talking about dance and Blaine is content to sit back and listen.

(He’ll go back to see the show three more times, including Rachel’s last show. She’ll introduce him to the rest of the cast and he’ll thank them, quietly and somberly and profusely, for telling the stories of the characters that they play. But that’s later.)

They leave the theater together- Rachel signs playbills for a few fans- and decide to go get coffee. Rachel is still flying high off of adrenaline from the performance and neither Tina nor Blaine is ready to go home just yet.

After finding a little hole-in-the-wall café they settle down and catch up. Rachel tells Blaine about school and what she’s been doing since he last saw her perform in South Pacific her senior year of high school. Tina tells them about her recent honeymoon trip and Blaine talks about the musical he’s thinking about signing onto composing for. It’s one in the morning before they leave and discover that they all live relatively close to each other. Or at least all along the same train line. Blaine and Rachel set up a time to meet again- and then they all part ways.

When Blaine goes to sleep that night, he does not dream, and his head hits the pillow with a smile on his face.

Life continues, and he will be glad to see what is to come.

 

________________________________________________________________________________

[1] The Man That Got Away, Judy Garland

[2] Marry Me A Little, Company

[3] Not While I’m Around, Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street

[4] Don’t Let Me Lose This Dream, Aretha Franklin

[5] You Make Me Feel So Young, Frank Sinatra

[6] Not While I’m Around, Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street

[7] Angel Baby, Rosie and the Originals


	4. Extras

So I couldn't figure out how to insert links, but there are two playlists that go with this fic.

The first one is what was basically my writing soundtrack while working on this, the "modern day" soundtrack if you will.

Here: https://8tracks.com/mashedpotatomambo/was-by-was

The second is songs that Blaine would have been a fan of or that are in the fic proper.

Here: https://8tracks.com/mashedpotatomambo/little-by-little

Hope you enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> Tw: Character death, hospitalization, grief, bashing (off-screen, canon compliant)


End file.
